Moonshine

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

‘And the Mountains Echoed’ begins with a Rumi quote. Khaled
Hosseini keeps this promise and does indeed usher the reader into a field where
there is no right and no wrong, where ‘cruelty and benevolence are but shades
of the same color.’ Many readers want to know: “How this third novel different
from his previous two?” Well, one big difference is that unlike the ‘Kite
Runner’ and ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ there is no untarnished hero, no
irredeemable villain. There is only life, and circumstance, and the reader is
set up to ponder over rather than
judge each character.

Part of Hosseini’s brilliance lies in the firmness with
which he pulls together the strings of the Mashreq and Maghreb until, in flat
defiance of Kipling’s prophecy, that twain finally meets. He uses English as the
deft medium but the novel defies the classical western tradition of the ‘story
arc’. That is, there is no simple “exposition, conflict and resolution”.
Instead, from his very first chapter, Hosseini proceeds in the timbre of the
ancient storytellers of the east, spinning many different tales, sometimes leaving
the listener at the clutching throes of one before tumbling headlong into a
totally different other. Of course the tales are connected. A character from
one tale sometimes appears in another (as in the Ramayana or the Arabian
Nights). And they all emerge from a common womb.

That womb is Afghanistan. Protagonists may spill in from
Greece or spill out into France and America, but a merciless Kandahari wind
blows through their lives wherever they are. Though it is about Afghanistan,
this is not a book about war. In the voice of one of his characters, Hosseini
explains: “I need not rehash for you the those dark days. I tire at the mere
thought of writing it, and, besides, the suffering of this country has already
been sufficiently chronicled…” The war may thunder on in the background but the
real stories are of separation and pain, of sibling rivalry and forbidden love,
of duty, identity and complicated parent-child relationships that span a
lifetime.

The reader will meet leg-revealing, cigarette-smoking Nila,
who rebelliously scratches erotic poems with her pen and also Parwana, who
bears none of the lightness that her name implies. The reader will meet
humanitarians who rush in to heal Afghans from the war and watch how they
manage, in the process, to heal themselves. Above all, the reader will
question, whether a little girl whisked off to Paris or a little boy pampered
in an ivory tower were better off than children who faced the poverty and war.
As we can expect from life, and from the great literature that mimics it, there
is never an easy answer.

Yes, it is possible to find flaws in ‘And the Mountains
Echoed’ starting with the clumsiness of the book-title itself. Readers who are
used to plots that provide instant gratification or satisfying resolutions will
have a bone to pick with Husseini’s refusal to create neat little endings to
the wounds he gashes open. The multiple sub-plots can feel distracting,
especially to readers who prefer to finish their novels in one sitting. And
of-course readers who dislike crying will be downright mortified. By the time
she reached the last sentence, this reviewer had raw eyes.

How many stars for this book? As many as shine down on the
deserts of Afghanistan.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

I was a schoolgirl in the 80’s and I know you. I remember
the excitement of the Brookebond ad, the value of your autograph. I remember
the pages in slambooks dedicated to you. I know who my boy-cousins and chacha’s
were pretending to be when they swung a bat over their shoulders and sauntered
onto a cricket pitch, the way a teenage Waseem Akram used to look at you. That’s
right, Skipper, my generation remembers all that.

I also remember the day your beaming face lifting the World
Cup was banned from national TV. My nineties-born boy cousins were named
‘Imran,’ they live with that name today. I remember one of Jemima’s earliest
interviews when she said she knew her husband ‘was popular in Pakistan—but she
had no idea he was this popular.’

‘Bimbo,’ I thought…along with the rest of the women in this
country. ‘Where did you come from?’ Who could like that woman for marrying…and
then leaving…Imran Khan… ‘No Hugh Grant ever matched up, huh Jem?’

I watched with unease when you were ridiculed in politics,
when flibbertigibbets like Nadia Khan could smirk publicly at you. When you
shed the playboy shirts and donned the awami suit. You made my heart sink with
your vote on the Women’s Bill. I winced as you talked about the Ahmedis. ‘Who
is he, really?’ I wondered. But my eyes were also opened by the way my
students—now men in their 20’s—began to attend your jalsas. And then, when my
sister skyped in to tell me that my seven-year-old nephew all the way across in
Liverpool, dropped his plastic cricket bat and began sobbing loudly,
heartbreakingly, at the sight of your bloodied face being carried away from the
forklift. It’s happened all over again.

One nation held its breath at precisely the same second,
last night, when you tumbled off that forklift, Skipper. We held our breath and
reached for each other, de-ja-vu washing over our hearts. You’ve made us hold
our breath countless times before: West Indies, India, Sharjah, the World Cup. But
not quite like this. We exhaled together when we heard you were ok, ignoring
partisanship to look each other in the eyes to read the same thought: We cant
afford to lose…this man.

There was nothing play-boyish, nothing glamorous about your
face looking out at us from the hospital bed. There were 60 years etched in
those lines, pain in those puffy eyes. But it gave us goose bumps to hear what
you had to say. I never watched cricket. I never believed in politics. Until
you, Skipper. For years, I’ve heard the drawing room talk lamenting our
leadership crisis. Last night, despite ourselves, we saw a Leader.

I disagree with you on so much but you make me determined to
fight for it all. If you get elected, someone might actually listen. Looking at
how you’ve persevered through the last 17 years till all turned to look twice:
this makes me believe in democracy in a way that the Bhutto legacy or the
Shareef baradaran never could. I’m coming to believe in democracy, thanks to
you, Skipper. For so many years, we’ve waited for a moment to feel our
collective heartbeat, for a moment to celebrate. Beneath our sarcasm and
skepticism, our blood—though these days it trickles rather than flows—remains
forever, green.

I am 37 and I’ve never voted. This morning, I sms-ed my ID
and noted my polling station. This morning, I fished around in my ilmari for a
green dupatta to iron for the 11th. This morning, I let Junaid Jamshed sing
‘Inshallah…’ in my car as I dropped my daughter to her school. Even though I
boycotted his lawn this year over his comment that women shouldn’t drive, even
though I share no beliefs with that man, I clutched at the steering wheel and joined
my voice with his: InshAllah…InshAllah. Voter turnout will determine the
election? Well then. This voter will turn up.

‘Come on, Imran.’ I remember the way the commentators used
to say it as the crowd’s feet began to thump in the stands, soft and so slow at
first, then louder, much louder, gaining speed…as you gained speed. ‘Come on, Skipper.’

Thursday, May 19, 2011

It feels like all my life, I’ve carried a Scrabble board under my arm, looking for someone to play with. It’s a lonely feeling when you cant find a Scrabble partner—kind of like knowing a language that no one else will speak to you in.

“Will you play with me?” I beg my husband.

He shudders. “No. I can’t stand the game. And I don’t want to play any game with you, you’re too competitive.”

“That’s why it’s called a game…it is meant to be competitive,” I huff and walk off.

“Will you play with me?” I beg my eight-year-old.

“No, Amma, you never let me win,” she says.

“If someone “lets” you win, it’s not winning at all,” I try to explain to her but I can see I’ve lost her attention.

“Do you play Scrabble?” I’ve asked friends, acquaintances, relatives… their responses have not been encouraging.

“I have better things to do.” (What could be better than Scrabble?)

“No, but since you have time, I need your help with this other thing…” (Run!)

“I can’t play now, my drama is on.” (You prefer to watch a Zee-TV Soap about redundantly hysterical saas-bahu relationships over the queen of games? I pity you. But more, I pity myself for being in the same err…country as you.)

Deprived as I’ve been, you can imagine, therefore, why, when I found “Facebook Scrabble for Users of the World excluding the USA and Canada” I went a little overboard, playing over a hundred games in the first 4 days alone.

“Have you been crying?” my husband’s uncharacteristic concern at the breakfast table, as he attempted to peer into the puffy slits that were once my eyes, caught me off guard.

“No. Why?” I asked stupidly. Of course I didn’t want to tell him that I’d been up playing till 5:30 a.m. but his suspicions were roused. The next time I sat at the laptop, he crept up behind me.

“Who’re you playing with?” he barked, peering over my shoulder at the screen.

“Sagar from India. Check out his tattoo,” I said, careful to hide the laughter from my voice.

“Great. Have fun,” he said, equally careful to hide the irritation from his, but I wasn’t fooled.

“Amma just finished playing with Anna, Bilal, Christopher and Pauline,” piped up my daughter. Her favorite activity now is settle down next to me and size up various Scrabble opponents from their thumbnail profile pic, begging me to open up their Facebook pages so she can have a better look. “They all lost except Pauline.”

“How many games has your Amma played today?” he asker her.

“Many, many,” came the traitorous reply. “She’s been playing since I came home from school.”

Yes, I’ll admit it openly, I’m addicted. Just like I’m addicted to carbs and flossing and other generally good things.

On a serious note, Scrabbling has opened up a whole new world for me. For instance, I can tell tons about a person by the way they play Scrabble. Do they generously open up the game, with six-letter words that blaze brave new trails across the board? Do they risk allowing you to score by opening up a “red” triple-word score space? Contrary to belief, these are not necessarily marks of the gullible player, but of the true sportsman. Also contrary to belief: taking risks that open up the game doesn’t mean your partner will win (he needs skill and the right tiles for that)—but it certainly means it will be a better, more interesting game. There are players whose words will conservatively hug yours, scared that if their letters foray into open space, you’ll rob all the double-word score spaces and win. These are the players who’ll jeopardize any chance you could have at a triple word score by making a three letter word that blacks the space forever (Small hearted player:If I cant score this, neither shall you! Me: I’m going to whup your ass anyway. Watch yourself loooose.)

About a hundred matches into the game, I’m realizing that I’ll never stop.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

So Bresh wanted a mural on her room wall. B says she is done with all things pink. But this tree from www.decorpad.com caught her eye.

Step One was to have the base walls painted Light Mulberry. When that dried, we lined out the trunk. B has never understood the point of monkey bars, nor deigned to ever climb one but she scrambled up onto the rickety paint-scaffold quite casually. I, on the other hand, was not too enthusiastic.

But once up there, who wants to come down again? This is not the most flattering angle for a photograph, with my kameez tucked into my shalwar but, well, that's me posing recklessly.

The next couple of days, whenever B announced, 'Ama, I'm Boooooooored," I'd hand her a paintbrush and a can of green paint and she'd climb up the scaffold and paint in a few crooked leaves. I, meanwhile, added branch upon crooked branch.